I Listen to the Rain
by momocandy
Summary: Oneshot. A person can mourn and grieve all they want. But time doesn't stop to wait for us. It just keeps moving on, and we're the ones who have to catch up to it before we leave ourselves behind. Deathfic


**Hallo my dear readers!**

**Just for a change of pace, I wanted to try another style of writing. **

**Note: this is a oneshot.**

**I apologize in advance for the depressing-ness, the weather over here is real gloomy today and I was reading _The Fault in Our Stars_ and _If I Stay_ and ugh the feels just got to me...**

**Happy Reading! (ironically)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gakuen Alice or any of its characters because if this actually happened to them I would just adfhsdfdkablkhdjf.**

* * *

Rain fell from a cold, bleak sky. It struck the cobblestones—relentlessly, mercilessly.

I stood unmoving under my black umbrella. The bottom halves of my pant legs were getting wet, but I didn't really notice. Or care.

To a lot of people, rain symbolizes nourishment, growth—a bestowing of life.

But to me, it was just the opposite.

I watched as the droplets pitter-pattered against the tombstones, which were already a wet, sullen gray. They blurred the names carved into the stone, the dates of birth and death, the heartfelt epitaphs so painfully written for each of the corpses buried underneath the soaked mounds of dirt.

_In memory of a genius girl who always dazzled us with her radical inventions..._

_In memory of a kind boy who never hesitated to lend a helping hand..._

_In memory of a sweet angel who constantly took our breaths away..._

I hated all of this sentimental shit. None of it mattered. They were all dead.

It's not like they heard the eulogies written for them or the tears shed for them. It's not like they heard the hearts breaking or the sadness or the grief. They would never truly feel the extent of what they did to the ones they left behind.

And the worst part is, it wasn't their fault.

I hated all of it, I despised how stupid and weak humans were, and yet, here I was, in a cemetery, standing in the pouring rain, staring at these tombstones and letting the minutes tick by.

In the end I was just stupid and weak too.

I unglued my eyes from the grave in front of me and gazed at the dozens of other tombstones all around.

Normally, someone visits a cemetery for one dead person. Maybe two. Maybe a few more.

But me, I was visiting for each and every single tombstone in this graveyard.

Because I had known all of them.

Because I had been there when all of them had died.

...

It's been three years. Three long years.

~o~o~o~

We had been on a school trip. All of the students in our grade were on that plane. We were going to Okinawa.

She told me it was going to be fun.

Then the man jumped out from the rear of the plane. He had a gun, and he went straight for the pilot. He was insane and suicidal, and he didn't give a fuck who he brought down with him.

One minute we were flying smoothly and the next we were in a nosedive heading straight for the ground.

If we had been flying over the ocean, there could have been more survivors. Maybe.

But on rock solid ground, there was no chance. Just boom, crash, whoosh into an inferno of fire, and everyone's gone.

I don't know why I was the only one still breathing when the paramedics and ambulances rushed in.

I don't know why my heart refused to stop beating.

My limbs had been ripped apart, my guts were spilling out, but my heart was still beating.

Of all people, why me?

I remember seeing her crushed under a pile of debris. My vision had been hazy and bloodred but I knew it was her. A single, charred hand stuck out from the rubble, limp in a pool of blood. A silver bracelet was still hanging from its wrist, the one I had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

I wanted to die.

I _wanted_ to _die_.

The doctors told me I had barely made it. They gushed worthless compliments about how strong and brave I was, how I was the embodiment of a miracle.

I told them to go to hell.

I didn't want to live. I didn't want to open my eyes after each surgery, to see a world without her or any of the others in it. But somehow, I still did.

You're told in life-death situations that _you_ have to power to control whether you stay or go. Bullshit. I didn't have any power over anything. I wasn't strong or brave or any of that shit. I wanted to die, I wanted to die so bad, but someone, something out there just wasn't letting me.

I remember hearing the doctors and therapists talking in hushed voices behind the curtains. I wasn't eating, I wasn't sleeping, I wasn't talking. All of them doubted my ability to recover. I was diagnosed with psychological trauma. People felt sorry for me. Everyday I saw the same pitying glances, the same sympathetic looks. I was monitored 24/7 in fear that I'd try committing suicide. Which I would have if I had been alone.

There was nothing I could do anymore. My eyes were open but it was just as if they were closed.

I didn't know where to go.

I had nowhere to go.

And then, one night in restless sleep, I suddenly had a dream.

She was in it, with all of the other people who had left. They were urging me to wake up, to move on.

Looking back, it was cliched as hell. Of course I didn't buy it.

Then she punched me and told me to go and live my life to the fullest. That damned girl fucking punched me in my dream.

It was some cheesy shit, but for the first time since the accident, I felt different. My eyes blinked open, and even though all of those people were dead, that night I saw them and they were still together, and all of them looked so happy.

I know I was probably hallucinating. But that was all it took.

After weeks of recluse and silence and depression, I woke up that morning and suddenly realized just how stupid I was. Wouldn't I be shaming them, shaming all those people who died in the plane crash, shaming her, if I, the only who survived, decided to selfishly take my own life?

Especially since the bastard who hijacked the plane had been suicidal himself.

That was when I decided that suicide was not an option.

If someone just came up to me and killed me, fine. But I wouldn't kill myself.

~o~o~o~

The doctors marveled at my sudden progress. Another miracle, they said.

If hallucinations about dead people were miracles.

Soon I was released from the hospital. At home I was welcomed by my mom and sister with tears and hugs.

I realized that I needed to be there for them too.

Slowly I began to show emotion again. Smiling still hasn't come back to me, and probably never will. But then again, I wasn't much of a smiler in the first place.

And really, the only reason I smiled before is because she was around.

The school was devastated after the accident. I never went back. Dropped out right before senior year and went to earn some money.

It wasn't hard, jumping into what the adults call 'the real world'.

But I guess nothing will ever be hard after suffering those long miserable weeks. I had already forced myself to accept reality long before I made any contact with 'the real world' itself.

A person can mourn and grieve all they want. But time doesn't stop to wait for us. It just keeps moving on, and we're the ones who have to catch up to it before we leave ourselves behind.

~o~o~o~

Why me?

I have come to terms with this question, which had haunted me so much in my early days of depression.

My answer: Sometimes, when shit happens, someone has to stick around to remember it, to remember all of the people who died and to keep their legacy.

I guess this time that someone was me.

I'm not proud of being the sole survivor. I have not ever once thought I was lucky.

But this is one job I will carry out for the rest of my life.

Living to remember the dead.

Some people may see it as punishment, but I find it quite honorable.

I will never be able to live my life to the fullest. I probably can never be truly happy again. But at the very least, I can do this. I can remember.

...

It's been three years since then.

I still remember.

I've gotten used to my prosthetic arm and leg. My other injuries have left only scars.

I visit the cemetery once a month, on the same date that it happened, regardless of my schedule.

It's funny, but most of the time it rains. Just like in the movies.

"Natsume, dear, it's time to go, " I hear my mother's voice call softly behind me.

"Shhh, give him more time, Mom," my little sister whispered. "He's talking to ghosts."

Their footsteps became distant.

I stooped down and placed a bouquet of roses on her grave.

Roses. They had been her favorite.

Then I just stood there and listened to the rain, remembering.

* * *

**Sooooooo, thoughts? Questions? Comments?**

**It was my first shot at this so tell me how it went! **

**Be honest though, sugarcoated lies aren't gonna help me improve! :P**

**-momocandyXD**


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